


Musketeer March 2021

by IsVampirismGay



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29779953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsVampirismGay/pseuds/IsVampirismGay
Summary: a collection of works done for the Musketeer March event promptsCurrently containing:1. sewing (Aramis/Porthos, fluff and h/c)2. ice/cold (Aramis/Porthos or Aramis/Porthos/Athos, humour/mild crack)3. favorite rarepair (Athos/Lucien Grimaud, humor/crack)4. "Hand it over" (gen, humour)6. swords (Porthos/Elodie, fluff, INFODUMPING)7. wine (athos, angst)11. horses (gen, book!Inseparables, humour)12. Savoy (mild Aramis/Marsac, angst)
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Marsac (The Musketeers 2014), Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon, Athos | Comte de la Fère/Lucien Grimaud, Elodie (The Musketeers 2014)/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 40
Kudos: 43





	1. Day 1: Sewing

"And _you're_ telling me that I should've been a seamstress."

Porthos looked up. He was sitting at the window, an old shirt in his lap.

"Unlike you I don't have Madam Chastain-"

"Madam de Vigny, actually," Aramis corrected him. "Unfortunately once Monsieur Chastain came home prematurely and our acquaintance had to be called off."

Porthos snorted. He kept sewing, slowly closing up the tear at the collar.

"Is that how you've lost your favourite sash?" he asked.

Aramis put his hand over his heart dramatically. "Not a day goes by that I wouldn't think about it," he declared.

He walked over to Porthos and peeked over his shoulder. "I should pay you to fix my shirts," he said.

"Like you could afford my rates," Porthos replied.

Aramis leaned down, resting his chin on Porthos' shoulder. "We could work out an arrangement," he purred.

Porthos shrugged him off, laughing.

"Not now, I'm sewing!"

Aramis pouted. He picked at the collar of his shirt.

"My lace is not doing that well," he complained.

"That's what you get for fighting Red Guards and wooing ladies in the same outfit," Porthos replied. He tested his seams.

Aramis took a chair and sat down opposite to Porthos. "It looks very nice," he said.

Porthos raised his eyes from the needlework. "I thought you've had Madam de Vigny taking care of your sewing needs?"

Aramis sighed. "I don't know how she does it but her sewing is even worse than mine," he said. "She could afford having a servant do it but no, she insists on doing it herself."

"That's a very dedicated lady," Porthos commented.

"Maybe a bit too much," muttered Aramis. "She's doing a very admirable effort with less than admirable results."

"Only you would complain about being loved a bit too much."

"You know it's not like this!" Aramis buried his face in his hands. "I never thought she'd get this _attached."_

"You've been making eyes at her ever since the lost sash fiasco," Porthos pointed out. He closed the tear, now tying off the thread.

"I didn't mean it like _that,"_ Aramis whined. "I just wanted to have some good fun and companionship and now she's- she's-" He waved his hands around. "Looking at me like _that_ and asking me to stay the night and giving me _those_ kisses-"

Porthos cut off the remaining thread, inspecting the seam for one last time. "It never ends with _good fun_ and _companionship_ when you're involved," he said, voice thick. He put down the shirt.

Aramis was looking at him, mouth open.

"Do you feel like that's all I seek from you?" he asked.

Porthos avoided his gaze.

Aramis leaned forward, placing his hand on Porthos' arm. It was still clutching the shirt. "You _are_ good fun and companionship but you're so much more," he said . "Madam Chastain or de Vigny or any others could never compare to you."

Porthos was still staring down at the shirt. "You know I'm sensitive," he said hoarsely. His head was guided up by Aramis' hand.

"All the ladies never saved my life in the field," Aramis said. "They've never had my back the way you do, they've never picked me up after a fight, patched me up like you do." He swallowed hard. "They don't know about Savoy or Marsac and if I get nightmares when I stay the night they can never help me calm down like you do."

Porthos' face crumpled and he pulled Aramis into a hug. He pressed a kiss into Aramis' hair.

Aramis pressed himself closer to Porthos, savouring the touch.

"Aramis," said Porthos.

"I love you," mumbled Aramis.

"I love you too," Porthos said, "But there's a needle somewhere in here and one of us is going to get stabbed with it."

"I don't care," Aramis replied and sat himself in Porthos' lap. He stilled for a moment. "Maybe I do," he said, voice strained. He extricated himself from Porthos and pulled out the needle from his thigh. "Here you go," he said, making Porthos laugh.

They sat in their seats, smiling at each other.

"Does that mean you're going to fix my shirts too?" Aramis asked cheekily.

Porthos wagged threateningly with the needle. "I'm _not_ your seamstress," he said.

* * *

"You've got a good hand for sewing," Aramis commented, looking at the fixed lace on his collar.

"Don't get too used to it," Porthos said gruffly, but he couldn't stop smiling.

They kept trotting down the road on their horses. A few of their colleagues were there too - Gus, Jean-Luc and Pierre, but they kept a bit further back.

A shot reverberated through the forest.

"Ambush!" yelled Porthos and the five of them all drew their guns, ready to fight their assailants.

The fight was quick and bloody, a couple of bandits severely misjudging their targets.

"Porthos!" Aramis screamed, seeing a man behind Porthos about to strike down.

Porthos turned around, just barely deflecting the sword so it didn't skewer him whole, but the blade still hit him. He finally defeated the attacker with a savage growl, the rest of the musketeers taking care of the last stragglers.

"Are you okay?" Aramis asked, coming to Porthos' side.

"I think the leather got the worst of it," Porthos answered. "I am-" he paused. "I think there's a scratch."

"Let me see," Aramis said, hands going over Porthos' doublet. There was a long hole in the leather. Aramis opened the doublet, finding the shirt underneath soaked in blood.

"Mierda," Aramis cursed. "It's a big one." He led Porthos to a fallen tree to sit down.

"Is he okay?" Gus asked. The rest of their companions were more or less unscathed, taking care of the bandits' bodies.

"I just need to check," Aramis answered. Peeling the leather off he exposed a long and deep cut running over Porthos' left breast. It was bleeding profusely. Aramis bunched up Porthos' ruined shirt and pressed hard on the wound. He placed Porthos hand over his own.

"I better stitch this up," he said. "I'll be right back."

Porthos obeyed.

Aramis returned with his medical kit and Gus and Jean-Luc in tow.

"Got help," Aramis said.

Porthos eyed them suspiciously.

"It'll be quick," Aramis promised.

Gus wordlessly handed Porthos a bottle. Taking a big swig, he waited as Aramis prepared his needle.

"It'll be _really_ quick," Aramis repeated, needle in hand.

Gus and Jean-Luc each grabbed one Porthos' arm, putting their whole body weight into it.

"I can control mys-"

Aramis drove the needle in and Porthos instinctively twitched, the movement dragging both men holding him down.

"You sure about that?" Gus asked in a high pitched voice.

"When I don't have a needle jammed-"

Aramis did another stitch, Porthos twitching again.

Jean-Luc tried to pat him soothingly, but the fact that he was hanging from Porthos' arm dampened the effect to a degree.

"Just a little bit," Aramis said. He made another stitch.

Gus grunted as Porthos' arm almost punched him off his own arm.

Aramis did one last stitch and cut off the thread. Gus and Jean-Luc finally released Porthos, both red faced from the effort of restraining him.

"We'll take care of the rest of the bandits," Gus said and together with Jean-Luc they returned to help Pierre.

"Thank you," Porthos said.

Aramis smiled and dressed the stitched wound. "Of course," he mumbled.

Porthos reached out to smoothen Aramis' collar. The decorative edge was sewed on neatly, little seams barely visible.

"As much as I complain about it I hope fixing your collars will be the worst of the sewing I'll have to do for you," he said quietly.

"Me too," Aramis replied and kissed Porthos' hand.

"Are you two done?" Gus shouted, already readying his horse.

"We should move on," Aramis mumbled and got up, not before giving Porthos' hand one last squeeze.

Porthos followed suit, trying to sort out his shirt and doublet. He poked at the giant tear in his shirt and groaned.

"More sewing," he grumbled, cursing under his breath as he returned to his horse.


	2. ice/cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day 2, prompt is ice/cold, this one has one (inappropriate) joke suggesting that porthos and aramis are boning but it can be interpreted as either portamis or ot3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl, i kinda struggled with this one but the moment i picked a more humourous/cracky tone it got tons easier so here you go, have a laugh

A blizzard swept through Paris, making the people huddle in their homes. The water in wells got frozen solid and if anyone wanted to get some they had to throw a big and heavy rock into the water and even that didn’t work all the time. Despite the snowflakes swirling all around there was hardly any snow to gather and melt for water as the wind was too strong and chaotic to let snow properly gather.

Snow wasn’t out of place, Paris sees its share every year, but the wind of this calibre was an anomaly. The pervasive gusts crept their way under doorways and through windows despite all the sheets people used to cover any possible openings. People in mostly wooden buildings had to stay bundled up in countless blankets and huddling together with their families for warmth.

Those Musketeers who lived in the garrison either abandoned their rooms in favour of less convenient but warmer relatives’ or friends’ homes or moved in together, huddling for warmth. Treville moved his office downstairs to the kitchen, which despite the occasional bouts of smoke was still the most hospitable place of the whole garrison. Special care had to be taken of the horses, blankets and extra hay being given in hopes that none of them will get sick or frostbitten.

Even the court life skidded to a halt, the nobility unwilling to linger in drafty rooms and corridors of the palace. The King was in ill humour but due to the cold he didn’t lash out that much, preferring to sulk in his bed instead.

That also meant a forced vacation for the Musketeers as the King wasn’t going anywhere and any possible threats to the country retreated from the cold just as everything else did.

Porthos and Aramis both stayed at the garrison, moving into the same room as five of their colleagues. They’ve picked the largest room in the garrison and then stuffed extra sheets into any orifices and draping blankets over the window. They’ve put their cots together for the nights and spent the days in stables or kitchen.

Athos was at his apartment away from the garrison.

* * *

“We should check with Athos,” Aramis said two days into the blizzard.

Porthos considered the suggestion. Athos lived in a different quarter, relatively close but still rather far considering the circumstances. It was not a journey that would’ve been particularly pleasant and they probably wouldn't go out there if it wasn’t necessary.

“Yeah, we should,” Porthos agreed. He knew how Athos could get at times and the situation with the blizzard couldn’t have helped his state either.

They’ve bundled up, putting on several layers of underwear and their gambesons underneath their usual leather doublets and wool cloaks. Both have foregone hats, instead wrapping their heads and necks in scarves.

Porthos looked at Aramis and broke into laughter.

“What?” Aramis asked, trying to seem stern and serious but started laughing a moment later.

“You look ridiculous!” Porthos exclaimed amidst the giggles.

“So do you!” Aramis retorted, body shaking with laughter. “You look like my grandmother!”

“Shut up!”

“You started!”

They kept snickering for another minute before finally smartening up and finally stepping outside.

They immediately got slammed by a gust of wind driving little pinpricks of slow into their faces.

“Fuck,” Porthos grumbled eloquently.

Braving the strong wind and icy streets they’ve slowly advanced towards the part of the city where Athos resided. There was barely a soul outside, only a few miserable looking people going about their most unavoidable errands.

A strong gust blew into the same direction as they were going, making them lean back in order not to lose balance.

“It almost feels as if I’m flying!” Porthos exclaimed, spreading his arms to further illustrate his point. “The wind is carrying me away...” He trailed off, stumbling further down the street.

“Porthos...” Aramis was looking at him concerned.

“It’s great, you should try it,” Porthos insisted.

And then the gust immediately waned, leaving Porthos without the necessary support.

He slipped and fell straight on his back.

Aramis started laughing at him.

* * *

With no small amount of complaining Porthos got back up, one hand gingerly placed on his bruised tailbone.

“Do you want me to take a look at that?” Aramis asked cheekily, earning himself a glare.

“I’m banning you from my ass just for that,” Porthos grumbled.

Aramis ignored his complaints and hooked his arm with Porthos’. He dragged him on, Porthos still bent over and clutching at his lower back.

“Come on, grandmother,” Aramis said in a shrill voice. “It’s too cold for your old bones here!”

“Fuck you,” Porthos growled.

“You may even slip on the ice and break your back!” Aramis continued, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Madam, you shouldn’t have let you grandmother go out in this weather,” a voice rang from behind them.

A man passed them by and got met by an amused Aramis and glowering Porthos.

Taking in the moustaches and now obvious lack of skirts he opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“Apologies,” he finally said and practically ran away from them. At the turn of the street the ice finally got to him and he slipped, crashing onto the ground face-first.

“Serves him right,” Porthos said and they continued their way to Athos’ place.

* * *

Finally arriving to the house containing his apartment, they knocked loudly on the doors. There was no answer.

“Athos!” Porthos shouted.

No answer.

Aramis sighed, producing his copy of the key to Athos’ apartment.

They’ve unlocked the doors and entered, not without some difficulty as a rag has been shoved into the slit between the door and floor. There seemed to be no sign of life, windows blocked with extra sheets. They’ve carefully tiptoed towards Athos’ bedroom, opening the door, once again blocked by a rag underneath.

It was dark inside, the one window covered with a sheet. There was a large pile of mismatched fabrics, a muzzle of the pistol pointing out.

“Oh, it’s you.”

The gun retreated into the cloth mountain and Athos’ nose poked out, the nook widening enough to allow him to see through.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice muffled by the countless layers.

Aramis and Porthos couldn’t help themselves – the sorry sight of their friend bundled in what looked like every possible cloth item in the whole apartment, with nothing but his nose poking out was simply too absurd for them not to laugh.

Athos hid his nose in the sheets again.

“Are you done?” he asked after his two friends finally seemed to be composing themselves. Unfortunately the muffled quality of his voice only sent them into further hysterics.

The pile that was Athos sagged in a distinctly disapproving way.

“Apologies, my dear friend-” Aramis said before succumbing to another giggling fit.

Athos’ eyes retreated from the hole in his cocoon and the barrel of the pistol reemerged.

“Tell me what you’re doing here or I’m shooting you,” he said.

“Don’t shoot,” Aramis said, catching his breath.

“We simply wanted to make sure you’re doing fine,” Porthos continued, threat of the pistol not stopping him from laughing again.

The pistol disappeared and Athos’ eyes and nose reappeared.

“You’ve seen me,” he said. “Now leave me dwell here in peace.”

“Oh, there’s no way we’re leaving you here like this,” Aramis said, approaching the cocoon. “We’re taking you with us to the garrison.”

“I am not going outside,” Athos said, voice featureless enough to not have been obvious as whining.

Porthos and Aramis knew him too well to be deceived.

“No more whining, we’re taking you with us,” Porthos said and poked the cocoon. “Put on your clothes and take your equipment, time to go.”

* * *

In the end Athos reluctantly obeyed them, bundling up so much he was barely visible from all the shirts, doublets, two (two!) cloaks and several scarves protecting his head and neck.

He looked both miserable and furious at the audacity of being dragged outside in such conditions, so the few passers-by avoided the whole company in a wide circle. Once they’ve arrived to the garrison and guided him into the kitchen his demeanour was significantly less sour and he elected to shed some of his countless layers.

Treville still managed to catch the sight of him in his cocooned glory as he entered the building and excused himself outside, preserving Athos’ dignity as he’s had a laugh to himself outside of the other Musketeers’ earshot.


	3. favorite rarepair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt for day 3 is favourite rarepair, for which i picked athos/grimaud. set nebulously in the first half of the third season, this is just a very not serious look at them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written exclusively during classes so if there's anything weird (outside of my usual cracky tendencies) going on in the text i blame it on that

Sylvie has been inviting him to her “gatherings” for ages now – he dared not to go, knowing how incendiary her ideas were – but his curiosity still won. He put on his plainest clothes, foregoing his uniform and walked into the refugee village, the regulars shooting him amused looks.

He nervously clutched the pommel of his rapier and made his way to the old storage where the gatherings took place.

“Make way!”

The unmistakeably annoying voice of Marcheaux rang through the crowd.

Athos turned around, seeking the source of the disruption. It looked like the Captain of the Red Guard was making a beeline towards the same place where Athos was going. He’s had at least a half dozen men accompanying him from what Athos could see, maybe more.

Athos grabbed a woman near him, an older lady that he recognised as Sylvie’s neighbour.

“Go warn Sylvie, I’ll stall them,” he said, sending her on her way. He drew himself into the (familiar, hated) posture of noble entitlement and aloof dignity.

Marcheaux found him immediately, stopping in front of him and sneering openly.

“I almost didn’t recognise you, Captain,” he said, dismissively glancing over Athos’ simple outfit.

“Visiting friends usually doesn’t require a full uniform,” Athos replied. “What is your business here?”

“That is none of your business,” Marcheaux said.

Athos kept looking at him expectantly.

“We have received reports of a woman called Sylvie Bodaire organising a meetings on which she incites people to rioting and treachery,” Marcheaux relented.

“That sounds extremely worrying,” Athos said in his least interested voice. “May I accompany you as the Captain of the Musketeers?”

“No,” Marcheaux answered. “This is strictly Red Guard business.”

“If it concerns the King, it concerns the Musketeers,” Athos replied and levelled Marcheaux with an unrelenting gaze.

Marcheaux sighed, rolling his eyes. “Okay, if you insist.” He gestured to Athos to turn around. “Come on, lead the way!”

Athos rolled his shoulders and walked leisurely towards the old storage. People around him seemed to be going about their business as usual.

They’ve entered the small hall where Sylvie hosted her gatherings.

“What on Earth is this?” Marcheaux demanded.

Sylvie and a small group of other refugees were sitting in a circle, one woman crying in her lap.

The people gathered shot them offended looks.

“We’re having a support group,” Sylvie said, brushing the woman’s hair gently. “Hush, dear,” she said quietly.

Marcheaux was looking around the place wildly. “What _is_ this?” He repeated, louder.

“You’ve heard her,” Athos said politely. “It’s a refugee support group, a community coming together to help each other through hardships.”

Marcheaux seethed. “Search this place!” he ordered his Guards.

“This woman is mourning!” one of the refugees exclaimed, offended.

“Have some decency!” Athos implored with a perfect air of noble moral outrage.

“Search her!” Marcheaux shouted, pointing at Sylvie.

One of the Guards yanked out of her seat, shoving the crying woman out of her lap.

“How dare you manhandle a civilian woman like this?” Athos exclaimed.

The Guard patted Sylvie down.

“What are you, animals?” Athos turned to Marcheaux, this time the anger in his voice real.

“There’s nothing on her,” the Guard reported.

“Of course there isn’t, we’re here to help each other deal with _grief!”_ another refugee said, outraged and with tears in her eyes.

“I don’t believe that’s all,” growled Marcheaux. “Arrest her!”

“You can’t do this without any evidence!” Athos shouted.

The Guard grabbed Sylvie roughly.

* * *

There was about a dozen Red Guards in the room. Aside from Sylvie there were seven refugees, all unarmed.

The crying woman lunged and punched the Guard holding Sylvie straight in the face.

* * *

“Arrest the rioters!” shouted Marcheaux and immediately got decked by Athos. The hall broke out in a straight up brawl between the guards and refugees.

Athos found himself wrestling two men at the same time as Marcheaux fired his pistol into the ceiling.

"Stop!" he yelled.

Athos and refugees carefully disentangled themselves from the Red Guard. Marcheaux nodded smugly.

"We are arresting that woman-"

"No, you're not."

Marcheaux turned around to see a man pointing his pistol at him.

"You're going to leave this place and not return unless you've got tangible evidence," the man continued. "Governor Feron cannot allow unlawful behaviour from his Guards."

Marcheaux tightened his lips, furious. With a curt jerk of his head he instructed his guards to leave the place. Just before he passed the man he stopped and glared down at the man's face, obscured by the hood pulled down over his face.

"Don't you ever do this again," he hissed and left.

Arthos looked between the man and Sylvie.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

The mysterious figure started leaving.

"I am, thank you," she replied.

"I have to go," he said and rushed out, trying to find the cloaked man.

* * *

He has searched every nook and cranny around the refugee camp before he finally admitted defeat and turned to go back to Sylvie's.

Which is when he got yanked into some decrepit passage with a blade to his throat and a hand over his mouth.

He tried to fight back, but his assailant was well-versed in wrestling and he couldn't shake him off. The dagger at his throat pressed harder, nicking the skin. Athos stopped struggling.

He got dragged deeper inside and then finally released, getting thrown into the room. It was an old shed, decaying wood and dust all around. Athos quickly turned around, facing his assailant.

It was the man from before.

He took down his hood.

"I saw you at the battlefield," Athos breathed.

The man leaned on the doorway, glaring at Athos.

"I want to kill you, yet I can't," he said.

Athos blinked a few times.

"I am quite sure you could-" he slowly started.

"It's not like that," the man interrupted.

Athos squinted at him.

"What is it like, then?" he asked. He took a moment to reconsider and got up into a sitting position. The man didn't seem to mind. He looked like he was trying to answer Athos' question.

"There is something," he said, looking almost physically in pain. "Something in my chest that stirs at the mere mention of you, let alone the sight."

Athos fought very hard to keep a neutral face. He decided to get up, feeling like this whole strange conversation might not be throwing him off that hard if he could look the man straight in the face.

"It's this strange urge," the man continued, "I need to get my hands on you and kill you."

Athos studied his face.

"I feel the same," he confessed.

The man took a step towards him. He raised his hand, reaching to Athos' neck. There was a trail of blood from the nick of the blade. He touched the blood, inspecting the red on his fingers before returning his gaze to Athos' face.

"Your face compels me," he said.

"May I know the name of the man I'm going to kill?" Athos asked.

"If I don't kill you first," the man replied. "I'm Grimaud."

"Grimaud," Athos repeated, tasting the name. "It fits you."

Grimaud took an extra step closer to Athos, leaving barely any space between them. "And you're Athos," Grimaud said. "Not Comte de la Fere anymore," he added, eyeing Athos curiously.

"How do you know all this?" Athos asked.

"I have my sources," he replied. He returned his gaze to the bloodstained finger and tasted it.

"Is it strange if I expected it to taste different?" he asked.

"It's blood," Athos replied somewhat absent-mindedly. His eyes were fixated on Grimaud's mouth, his lower lip being stained red by Athos' blood.

"It's yours."

Athos nervously licked his lips. This seemed to draw the attention of Grimaud, who was now glaring at that particular part of Athos' face as if it has done him a grave offense.

"I've never wanted to kill you more than I do now," Athos whispered.

Grimaud's hand returned to Athos' neck, holding, but not pressing. Athos' breath caught in his throat, but he leaned into the touch. Their faces drew closer.

Loud banging made them jump apart.

"Get out of my shed!" screamed an old lady, threateningly brandishing a sizeable broom. She banged on the doorway again for emphasis.

"Get out, you hooligans!" she demanded, shrill voice piercing through their ears. "You can do your- your- _unholy_ things somewhere else!"

Grimaude quickly drew the hood over his face and slinked past the lady, leaving breathless Athos facing the woman by himself.

"Apologies," he finally croaked and escaped out.

* * *

"My dear friends," Athos said. "I've just had the most unusual of encounters."

He was sitting at the table in his rooms, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan around him and a bottle of wine shared between them.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "Does that have anything to do with the blood on your neck?"

Athos' instinctively reached to touch the nick.

"Yes," he answered.

"Does Madame Sylvie have anything to do with it?" Aramis inquired, immediately getting elbowed by Porthos.

Athos relayed the tale of the evening's events, describing his inexplicable urge to kill Grimaud.

"God, just saying the _name_ makes me want to just..." he said, mimicking strangulation.

D'Artagnan's eyebrows were raised so high they almost left his face and floated towards the heavens.

Portos was very dedicated to biting his finger. Aramis was hiding his face partially in Porthos' shirt.

"And he feels the same," Athos sighed.

"Athos," d'Artagnan said, his voice uncharacteristically high.

Aramis raised his head from Porthos' shirt. "My dear friend," he said.

"What?" Athos asked.

"You and Monsieur Grimaud don't want to kill each other," d'Artagnan slowly said.

"You want to shag," Aramis bluntly finished.

Athos' face went white.

"You both have big, fat crushes on each other," d'Artagnan added.

Porthos patted him on the back. "Congratulations on your new admirer," he said, voice shaking with barely restrained laughter.

"Oh no," Athos whimpered and slumped down onto the table, burying his face in his arms.

* * *

A few days went by without anyone seeing Grimaud before Athos got yanked into a yet another dark corner.

"It's you again," he said, seeing Grimaud. He was brandishing a dagger and staring intently at Athos.

Athos stared back, wide eyed. He mentally uttered a short prayer, asking not to get stabbed and grabbed Grimaud by his cloak, kissing him.

There was the sound of metal clattering on the ground and then Grimaud was kissing him back, an arm around Athos' waist and a hand in his hair.


	4. "Hand it over."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prompt was "Hand it over" so here's some gen shenenigans placed vaguely in the Cardinan's times
> 
> no editing, we die like musketeers

D'Artagnan staggered to the garrison, blinking blearily at the pale sun. He collapsed at their usual place, Serge wordlessly placing bread and cheese in front of him. Athos was also there, looking his usual mute self.

"Morning," d'Artagnan mumbled.

"Good morning."

They both ate their breakfast in silence.

"Where's Porthos and Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked once he got into a more coherent state.

"They said it was a secret," Athos answered.

D'Artagnan hummed in response.

After a few more minutes of silent eating there was a commotion at the entrance to the garrison's courtyard. D'Artagnan perked up, trying to see what was going on. Athos kept chewing on his apple as if nothing had happened.

Aramis and Porthos carried a decently sized barrel to the table where d'Artagnan and Athos were sitting. D'Artagnan blinked owlishly at them.

"Happy birthday!" Porthos boomed, making everyone, including himself cringe from leftover hangover. "We know it was yesterday, but your gift arrived only today."

"My gift?" d'Artagnan repeated.

"Your gift!" Aramis confirmed and gestured at the barrel with the amount of flourish no hungover man should possess.

"Is that wine?" Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head enthusiastically and then grimaced again, putting a hand to his temple.

"It's black powder," he said.

"Black powder?" d'Artagnan repeated, wide eyed.

"Yea," Aramis confirmed.

D'Artagnan's face stretched into an uncanny smile.

"Thank you," he breathed, eyes fixated on the worryingly large barrel.

Athos didn't say anything, but he looked significantly more perturbed than he was before.

Porthos slapped the barrel. "Where should we put this bad boy?" he asked, grinning.

* * *

Being too hungover to really decide what to do with the enticing barrel, d'Artagnan decided to take it home until he found a proper purpose for such a monumental amount of black powder.

He awkwardly kicked the doors open, peering over the barrel in his arms.

"Oh, you're ba-"

Constance paused. "What on earth is that?"

"Uh," d'Artagnan said. "A birthday gift?"

"And what exactly is that birthday gift?" Constance asked carefully.

"A very important resource for a Musketeer," d'Artagnan said. "I'll just... take it to my room."

He shuffled past her towards his room.

"D'Artagnan."

He stopped.

"Is that _black powder?"_

He turned around, giving her his best smile.

"Get it _out!"_

* * *

"Athos, my dear friend-"

"What do you want?"

D'Artagnan gestured to the barrel. "Constance won't let me keep it in the house."

"I always knew she was smart."

D'Artagnan gave him a withering look. "Athos."

Athos rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You can store it at my place."

D'Artagnan practically glowed. "Thank you!"

"Wait," Athos stopped him. "Know that I'm letting you do this only because it means I can stop you from getting to the black powder if you get a stupid idea."

D'Artagnan's face fell.

* * *

"Gentlemen."

They were hiding behind a building, spying at a rundown house where a group of Spanish spies had their headquarters. They had to destroy everything inside or France and Spain would both find themselves in a very nasty international incident.

D'Artagnan had a manic look on his face.

"No," said Athos.

Porthos chuckled darkly. "Why not?" he asked, the manic gleam in his eyes matching d'Artagnan's.

"This is in the middle of Paris," Athos pointed out. "Houses everywhere."

"If we set it right it should only make the house collapse onto itself," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"What are we," Athos said heatedly, "Barbarians?"

He was met with three sets of very doubtful eyes.

"I'll report to Treville," he finally said, "And you three try to figure out the guard rotations."

He walked away and then turned around, pointing a very threatening finger at all three of them, but especially d'Artagnan.

"If I hear any explosions I will be very mad, but Treville will be even madder," he said quietly and finally went away.

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan watched him leave then turned their attention back to the spy house.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan said. "You can still pick locks, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"The black powder should be in Athos' bedroom."

Porthos tipped his hat and left.

* * *

An agonizingly long few minutes later Porthos showed up with the barrel in his hands, grinning intensely enough that he's received a good portion of concerned looks from the passers-by. He placed the barrel on the ground.

"What's the plan?"

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos and Aramis.

"Someone sneaks in, puts the barrel in the right place, lights it up and runs?"

"Simple and effective," Porthos said. "I like it."

"How do we sneak it in, though?" Aramis asked.

The trio sank into contemplative silence.

"We just tell them it's wine from the ambassador," d'Artagnan finally said. "To celebrate their upcoming success."

"D'Artagnan, my dear friend," Aramis said. "You're a genious."

D'Artagnan blushed.

"We're still very obviously Musketeers," Porthos pointed out. "We need disguises."

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said. "Would you do the honours?"

"What honours?" D'Artagnan looked between his two friends, confused.

"I mean you _do_ live in a clothes merchant's house," Porthos said. "I suppose it wouldn't be too hard to borrow a little something?"

* * *

"What do you need this for?" Constance asked.

"Oh, it's just for reconnaissance," d'Artagnan said. "Absolutely no swordfighting or shooting involved."

Constance eyed him suspiciously.

"If it's damaged you'll have to pay extra," she warned him before giving him a set of clothes.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos needed several minutes to regain their composure. D'Artagnan grem impatient, putting his hands on his hips indignantly. He was wearing a garishly green ensemble with an astonishing amount of ruffles.

"Are you done?" he asked, tired.

"No, no, we're good," Aramis finally said, regaining his breath only to break into another fit of giggles. Porthos wordlessly shoved the barrel into his hands and pushed him into the open.

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and walked towards the doors.

* * *

"Where's d'Artagnan?"

Athos and Treville appeared at Aramis' and Porthos' back, making them both jump.

"Uh," Porthos said.

Aramis' gaze escaped to the bright green figure that was just entering the spy house.

"Tell me you're not that stupid," Athos said.

"We were told lying isn't honourable?" Porthos said and both him and Aramis immediately got seized by their collars.

"Idiots!" Athos hissed furiously.

"We have to act fast," Treville reminded them. "Before the whole building blows up."

"Full frontal assault?" Athos asked.

Treville nodded.

Aramis sighed, taking his musket. "It was at least fun to think about," he said, taking aim.

* * *

Just as the doors closed behind him a gunshot echoed through the air. D'Artagnan cursed, frantically looking around for cover.

"Traitor!" one of the men shouted, aiming a pistol at him.

"I have no idea what was that!" d'Artagnan yelled back, arms still occupied with the barrel.

More gunshots echoed and d'Artagnan run deeper into the building, throwing caution to the wind. He found a wall which seemed like the central support of the building. He put the barrel down, the spies too busy with the frontal assault to pay any attention to him. He took the fuse out and placed it in the hole of the barrel. He quickly started unwinding the cord, carefully retreating towards the exit.

The noise of the fight stopped.

He checked around, seeing only dead spies and-

"Put that down!"

A very furious Athos was walking over to him. Aramis and Porthos were standing in the back, looking like scolded children.

"Come on," Athos demanded. He still held his sword in one hand. "Hand it over!"

D'Artagnan sighed and obeyed him.

"Exploding a civilian house?" Athos shook his head disapprovingly. "You should be ashamed."

He wound the fuse back, taking in out of the barrel.

"You're banned from any gunpowder until you learn how to behave," Athos continued.

Porthos and Aramis sniggered in the back.

"You two too!"

Athos finally put his sword away, taking the barrel for himself.

"I am taking this home," he said pointedly. "And I'm getting myself a better locksmith."

He left the house.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at each other sadly.

Porthos patted d'Artagnan's back. "Some other day," he said soothingly.

* * *

"I can't believe I'm letting you do this," Athos said disapprovingly.

"Because you love us," Aramis replied cheekily.

"And because you hate the Cardinal," Porthos added.

D'Artagnan lit the fuse.

"I can't argue with that," Athos conceded.

All four of them watched the little spark travel towards the wonderfully carved, disgustingly opulent carriage of the cardinal. They stuck their fingers into their ears.

A loud _bang_ echoed over the courtyard and the carriage all but evaporated.


	5. day 6: swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a Porthos-centric piece, set after the end of s3
> 
> this is just him being an adorable dad and smitten (ha) with Elodie and even more smitten with flamberge zweihänders because that's my favorite type of a sword to exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't skip day 5 (Athos), i did a watercolor portrait so that's why there's nothing here. anyway i hope you enjoy this, it really was my time to shine lmao

It’s been several months since he was last at home. When he was appointed the new military general he was too caught up in the euphoria of achieving such a ridiculously high rank to realise all the downsides it brought. One of them being out on the front for months to no end. Not seeing his wife. Not seeing his daughter. Not seeing his friends.

He missed them all more than anything.

But he finally got called back to Paris, supposedly to discuss further military strategy with Her Majesty – but most likely Aramis just took pity on him and convinced the council that he was urgently needed at some specific meetings.

Porthos didn’t care about the real reason, he was mostly just happy to be back in Paris. As he rode through the familiar streets his heart ached in a way that was so much more vivid that when he was actually away. Knowing he was there only for a short while before he had to go away again rendered the return home more bitter than sweet.

He shook his head, willing the maudlin thoughts away.

He finally found his was to the Musketeer garrison, where he knew he’d find Elodie with Marie-Cessette, both of them taken under the wing of d’Artagnan and Constance.

Brujon, who walked with him rushed ahead, enthusiastically greeting some of the cadets he knew. Porthos smiled, the sight of the young Musketeer reminding him of the times when d’Artagnan was still fresh in their midst.

The commotion seemed to have been unusual enough as the doors to the Captain’s office opened and d’Artagnan stepped out. Recognising Brujon he searched for Porthos and a wide smile split over his face as he ran downstairs.

“Porthos!” he exclaimed happily and smothered him in a hug. “So good to see you!”

Porthos hugged him back, lifting him slightly off the ground. “Likewise.”

They drew apart, smiling at each other.

“Porthos!”

Constance was standing at the edge of the courtyard, Marie-Cessette in her hands.

“Look who it is,” she cooed to the toddler. “Daddy came home!”

Marie-Cessette looked at him with wide eyed.

“Hi, Marie!” Porthos gave her a little wave before he reached her with long, and just a little rushed strides.

Constance handed him Marie.

“How are you doing?” Porthos cooed, making Marie laugh.

“Papa!” she said happily and grabbed his nose. “Nose!”

Porthos chuckled and took her hand, giving it a little kiss. He looked over to Constance.

“Nice to see you too,” he said.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Marie has missed you,” she said. “And so did we.”

He nodded. “Thank you for looking after Marie,” he said. “Do you know where’s-”

“Elodie is in the smithy,” Constance said.

Porthos smiled bashfully. “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan patted him on the back. “Go see your wife,” he said.

* * *

There was the sound of whetstone against steel signalling Elodie’s presence in the smithy before he got t close enough to see. He stopped at the open doors, leaning on the frame for a moment, just watching her.

She was sharpening a dagger, a thin and elegant weapon, too thin for soldiers but just fine for a civilian’s self defence. A few strands of hair escaped from the braids holding it back and were hanging over her face in a flattering manner. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead and a few soot marks were smeared over her face. Her sleeves were rolled up and her forearms displayed many burn marks, sweaty and dirty as the rest of her.

Porthos felt himself falling in love with her all over again.

“Ma!”

Elodie looked to the doorway. Her eyes widened and then she smiled brightly. Her so strong and steady hands were now trembling slightly and she put down her work. She came to him, skipping slightly with rush and gave him a one-sided hug, mindful of Marie that Porthos was balancing on his hip.

She gave him a firm but chaste kiss, cupping his face with one hand.

“I love you,” she said quietly.

“I love you too.”

They smiled at each other.

“Loff!”

Elodie smiled at her daughter. “We love you too, sweetie,” she said.

“How are you doing?”

“Quite well,” Elodie answered. “Constance is godsent, and so is Aramis when he visits."

Porthos was looking at her and Marie. “I’m just so happy to see you again,” he said, heart impossibly full.

Elodie drew him into another kiss. “So are we.”

They were looking at each other lovingly until Marie-Cessette tugged hard on Porthos’ hair, making him wince.

Elodie laughed, the fragile tenderness of the moment shattered, settling into a more firm and loving warmth.

“I’ve made you a gift while you were away,” she said.

“Did you really?” Porthos asked. “You’re too sweet.”

Elodie blushed. “You’re the one to talk,” she replied and nudged him to move out of the doorway. “I’ll be right back.”

Porthos was left alone with Marie-Cessette in his arms.

“And how are you doing?” he asked her.

Marie giggled.

“I’m sure once you grow up you’ll be as strong as your mother,” he said. “Look at yourself, you’re already such a big girl.”

“Porthos?”

He turned around.

Elodie was holding a large sword in her arms, bigger than her and probably even bigger than him.

“I remember how you spoke about once seeing one of those in the field,” she said. “And how you wanted one, even if they’re not that useful with now that we’ve got muskets.”

“Elodie...” Porthos opened his mouth and closed it again. “Darling, this is beautiful!”

Marie pointed at the sword. “Swod!” she exclaimed.

Porthos laughed. “Yes Marie, that is a very big sword.” He gently set her down and she immediately hugged his leg. He chuckled, ruffling her hair.

Elodie handed him the sword. It was heavy, heavier than the weapons he was used to handling and yet light enough for his arms. The grip was of dark wood and the ricasso was wrapped in brown leather of a matching colour. From the parrying hooks on the blade turned wavy, the central line following the pattern. The pommel was tear shaped and the guard curved elegantly, two rings added for extra safety.

It was a functional weapon, but the artistry of its make was undeniable. Porthos knew he wouldn’t get to use such an old fashioned sword on the battlefield, but he didn’t feel particularly sad about it. It was a killing weapon and yet it was crafted with such love and care, Porthos yet again felt like his heart was going to burst from his chest from all the love.

He would never pick it up with the purpose to kill, not unless his loved ones were threatened and he had nothing else to protect them with.

“Thank you, dear,” he said. “It’s just how I remember it.”

Elodie smiled bashfully. “I asked Aramis for help with details,” she said.

Porthos snorted. “He does know them, whether he likes it or not.”

“He did mention something along those lines, yeah.”

* * *

Before Porthos met Aramis or Athos or even Treville, he served as a foot soldier, a pikeman. Trained to use all sorts of polearms – deceptively heavy and cumbersome – he spent a year on various battlefields, serving in the first line of defence for the musketeers.

Large two-handed swords were already obsolete but there was a German general who still carried his own – an elaborate and sophisticated weapon with a mesmerising wavy blade. Porthos was entranced.

Few months later he approached Treville, asking to let him join the King’s Musketeers. He’s been defending the musketeers in the infantry for long enough to pick up their tricks and make enough friends that would show him the basics. Treville was impressed, letting him join after only a short period of training.

As he was training to use the rapier he would sometimes mournfully think of the flame-bladed beauty he’s seen, but quickly banished the thought. He was about to enter the most prestige regiment in France and thinking about obsolete weapons of the previous generation wasn’t helping him achieve anything.

One afternoon he was sparring with one of the Musketeers in the courtyard as Treville called him from the armoury. He excused himself and followed him inside.

Treville stopped in front of a wall of various swords.

* * *

He actually won his sword in a card game off with a mercenary that was too blind to see just how blatantly Porthos cheated. It was an older design, wide-bladed and with little flourish. Just a simple cross guard and two rings were all there it was to the hilt, another relic of the previous generation.

It served him well, the halberd being a rather cumbersome weapon for close quarter combat. The most use he got from it was actually when he wasn’t fighting on the battlefield, the heavy blade proving itself a good counter-measure against any brigands that tried their luck with Porthos.

He was never properly trained to use it, so he just improvised with what he knew – the little he could do with a dagger or knife and what he was capable of with a polearm. His fighting methods ended up being a strange mixture of highly technical parries mixed with thrusts and just brutal slashes that the blade allowed.

* * *

His old technique worked quite well with the old wide-bladed sword, but now he was supposed to use a rapier which really wasn’t made for the wide slashes. He was supposed to thrust and stab at the opponent but he was used to slash too. He was struggling with his new weapon even if he was excelling at all other types of combat, but he was determined to overcome that too.

“You used to have a wider blade, didn’t you?” Treville asked.

Porthos nodded.

“You don’t seem to be taking that well to rapier,” Treville continued.

“Monsieur, I swear I will-”

Treville silenced him with a look and turned towards the collection of weapons, picking one.

“Try this,” he said.

Porthos gingerly accepted the blade.

It was very similar to a rapier, but the blade was more reminiscent of his old sword. The basket hilt was heavy and elaborate, blade long and wide. It felt more utilitarian than the classic rapier. It felt like it could do what Porthos so helplessly tried to make his rapier do.

He swung it a bit, tested a few moves and positions. Its weight was comforting in his hand.

He looked up, finding Treville smiling at him.

“Better?”

Porthos nodded, face breaking into a grin. “Much better.”

“Keep it,” Treville told him. “It’s useless to force you into a style that is so unintuitive for you when you can already fight so well.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Now get back to sparring!” Treville shooed grinning Porthos out of the armoury.

The Musketeer he was sparring with before was waiting for him, absent-mindedly fiddling with his gloves. He whistles when he noticed the new sword.

“Does that mean you’ll finally pose a challenge?” he asked cheekily.

“Shut up Aramis,” Porthos grumbled, but still smiling. They crossed swords again, this time Porthos dancing around the other man’s thinner rapier with much greater ease.

* * *

Aramis invited him for drinks afterwards. They sat in the tavern, each with his own ale, chatting pleasantly.

“I see you prefer _big_ swords,” Aramis said. “Are you trying to compensate for something?”

Porthos laughed. “I just like them big,” he replied. “Before I joined I saw a man with one of those enormous swords that are closer to pikes than swords and I swear, one day I’ll get myself one too!”

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Those clunky things?” he asked incredulously.

“Those _beautiful_ clunky things,” Porthos corrected him.

Aramis snorted. “To each their own, I suppose.” He took a sip.

Porthos shook his head. “You don’t get it, that was the most beautiful weapon I’ve seen in my whole life!”

Aramis gasped, mock-offended. “More beautiful than  _mine?”_

Porthos nodded, completely sincere. “No other sword could compete with its charm.”

Aramis delicately placed a hand over his heart and cleared his throat. “What could make it prettier than mine? More mesmerising that my beautiful hilt? More elegant than its long blade?” he cried.

“Are you sure that we’re still talking about swords?” Porthos asked, making Aramis sputter and laugh out loud.

“Well, now that you mention it-”

Porthos shushed him. “I’ll tell you what makes that sword so beautiful, Aramis.” He took a sip to wet his throat. “First of all...”

* * *

“In fact, he said the first time you two drank together you talked his ear off about it.”

Porthos’ cheeks heated up. “Maybe,” he said.

Marie-Cessette was still hugging his leg.

“Hey there, little one,” he said softly. “If you want to hold this sword one day you’ll have to be a good girl and eat all the veggies, okay?”

Marie looked at him with her big eyes and nodded.

Elodie giggled. “What sort of a child are we going to raise?” she asked, shaking her head.

“Stwong!”


	6. day 7 - wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is angsty bit about athos and grief and duty and wine. tw for alcoholism (obviously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this in two hours and it's almost three am as i'm posting it so there's probably horrible typos. be warned

The first thing he did after _that_ was taking a whole cask of his family’s strongest wine and then filled goblet after goblet after goblet, until nothing existed outside of the red swirl. In the dim lighting it looked a bit too much like blood and he threw the goblet at the wall and buried his head in his hands.

He was alone in the room, alone in the house. Catherine returned to her family and he sent all the servants away, wanting to be left alone in his misery.

The only companion was the wine, rich, intoxicating and so horribly red.

* * *

There used to be times when wine was just a refined drink, one that went really well with the roasted meat that was for the Easter, one that loosened him up just a bit to forget about his noble status, one that splashed a bit in the goblet when him and his brother clinked their glasses together.

He remembered that one dinner when his father and uncle were still there, when his mother was still happy and light, Thomas just a careless teenager.

Father opened a special bottle, saying he got it from the lord so-and-so and that it was a very special bottle. It was tart and rich and it got into Athos’ head all too quickly despite all the food. His cheeks heated up and he laughed with Thomas who was all red faced and shiny-eyed. Uncle drank a bit too much too and he remembered how funny imitations of the stuffy nobles were.

Father though, father kept drinking and his face turned more and more sour, not laughing with them anymore. His expression was stormy and dark and the laughter slowly quieted down. He wordlessly gulped down the last of his wine and left the table.

The rest of the family didn’t dare look each other in the eye and they hesitantly finished their own food and glasses.

Athos felt strangely disoriented, thrown off balance. His mouth tasted like rotten fruit.

* * *

That much wine wasn’t doing him any good. He remembered how his father would get when he drank and-

He filled another goblet, swallowing the wine in one go.

He never got this drunk. He wasn’t sure what his legs and arms were doing. In fact, he wasn’t sure where exactly he was or what was going on with his body.

Thomas would-

He filled the goblet again, emptying it sloppily.

* * *

The morning found him slouched, drooling slightly on the table. His tongue rolled in his mouth like a very coarse, very lazy snake. He staggered out, first relieving himself against a tree because he couldn’t handle dealing with a proper latrine, then dunking his head straight into the water meant for horses.

Feeling sufficiently awake he squinted at the sun, mocking him with its cheery brightness. His head was still spinning, he was still somewhat unsteady, but the hangover was already there, turning every ray of light into a little pin stuck into his brain.

He staggered back inside and collapsed on a sofa, not wanting to look at his old bedroom where _she-_

He got up and poured himself more wine.

* * *

One thing that his father instilled in him was the sense of duty. He was his heir, which meant he was going to be _the_ Comte, the protector, the provider, the leader, the head of the family one day. That day came soon, too soon, but Athos bore it with grim determination.

The day that he died he still allowed himself one night _just one night_ of weakness and when his mother found the empty bottles in his bedroom she seemed to have broken just a bit more. Looking at her with bleary eyes, barely registering what he was seeing, Athos swore not to ever drink like that again.

Then his mother died barely a year later.

He already downed one bottle that night, but then _she-_

He poured himself more wine.

* * *

He resigned himself to duty, to being the head of the rapidly dwindling family. But at least Thomas was still there, now it was him who was engaged to Catherine who was also there more often than not, and _she-_

He poured himself more wine.

* * *

He spent the day in a drunken daze. He’s had just enough mind to eat some bread and cheese in between the cups of wine until he passed out again.

This time the hangover was even worse than before.

He did his miserable morning routine. As he collapsed on the sofa again he heard noise in front of the house.

“Olivier!”

It was Catherine’s voice.

He contemplated getting back up, but couldn’t bring himself to lift a finger, let alone go to the doors and open. He couldn’t face her yet.

There was more noise at the doors. He closed his eyes and covered his ears.

“Olivier!”

The arms covering his head got yanked away. He blinked blearily.

Catherine was looking at him, her face painfully open.

“Olivier,” she repeated, softer. “Look at yourself.”

She brushed his hair away from his forehead and rested his hand on his cheek.

“Let me help you,” she said.

* * *

His father made sure his eldest son knew his duty. As the feudal lord, as a husband and father, as the head of the family he would be the main protector, commander, leader.

His father never allowed himself to lose himself to drink. He's had his nights, but he always emerged in the morning, fresh, raw but as brisk and proper as always.

Athos looked at the wine bottles.

* * *

Catherine tugged him into an upright position.

“My God,” she said. “Were you like this since-”

His face screwed in pain.

“Let’s get you some fresh clothes,” Catherine said, abandoning her previous train of thought.

She looked him over.

“I’ll be right back.”

Athos looked at the wine bottles.

* * *

He was the protector, the defender, the leader, the head of the family.

But there was no family, he made sure that the last-

He drank some more wine.

* * *

Catherine returned with a change of clothes and sighed as she saw him with the bottle. She placed the clothes on the sofa and gently pried his fingers off the bottle. He let her lead him away from the table.

She made him strip, tugging the dirty, wine-red spattered clothes off. It almost looked like-

She shushed him, lightly shoving him back onto the sofa. He obeyed, sitting down.

She helped him put on a fresh change on. He felt like he was just a small child again, mother helping him with the buttons on his doublet.

He was the protector, the provider, the leader, the head-

* * *

He got up, shrugging Catherine’s helpful arms away and finished his clothes on his own.

She smiled unsurely.

“I’ve brought you some fresh food,” she said quietly. There was a small basket by the sofa. “We can eat together,” she added, “Since you must be so...”

She shook his head.

He was just staring at her mutely, emptily.

“We should go to a different room, it’s so dreary here.”

She picked up the basket and led him to the dining room. He followed her lead, moves clumsy and automatic.

She sat him onto a chair at the head of the table.

He was the protector, the provider, the leader, the head-

“Eat.”

There was some cold meat and vegetables placed in front of him. He obeyed.

* * *

Last time he sat there _she-_

Catherine placed her hand on his elbow.

“Olivier?” she asked tentatively. “Please talk to me.”

He looked at her.

Whatever showed on his face made her look down at her plate, swallowing thickly. “Or not,” she said in a small voice.

They ate the rest in silence.

* * *

“Please don’t give up,” Catherine said quietly.

They were standing at the doors out. Her cart was still there, together with a servant.

Athos didn’t answer.

She clasped his hands.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she promised and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

He did not move or in any way acknowledge her.

She let go of him. “Goodbye,” she said and climbed onto the carriage.

He didn’t watch her leave.

It was his duty-

He looked at the bottles of wine, now neatly put away. There was more in the cellar, where _he-_

* * *

He gathered his most important valuables and together with essentials he packed them into saddlebags.

“Where are you going?”

Catherine arrived again. He hoped she wouldn’t.

He didn’t answer her.

“Olivier!”

She jumped down from the cart, walking up to him.

“You’re prepared to travel,” she said. “Where? For how long?”

He didn’t answer her.

He just checked over the saddle and bags.

“Olivier!”

The genuine distress in her voice finally made him look at her.

“You won’t see me here again,” he finally said, voice gravelly from disuse.

“Oh, Olivier!”

She threw herself into a hug.

“Please don’t abandon me,” she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “At least let me come with you!”

She drew back, wiping tears from her eyes and looking at him hopefully.

He did not answer her.

Avoiding her eyes he saddled the horse and led it out of the courtyard, to the road. She was still standing there, looking after him.

He did not look at her or the mansion, or the tree where _she-_

* * *

His father made sure he knew his duty.

* * *

He got up with a groan.

Empty wine bottles were lying on the floor.

Taking the water from outside, he placed the heavy bucket on the floor. There was a thick layer of ice on top.

His head was throbbing and there was still some leftover wine making his movements clumsier than they’d be just from sleep.

He was the protector, the leader-

He punched the ice with a yell and then sank his head into the water.

He got dressed and did all the stretches and drills he’s been taught years ago.

His father made sure he knew his duty.


	7. Day 11 - Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day 11 - horses
> 
> featuring a blend of book and series characterization, a few references to my favorite book moments and overall idiocity one can expect from the inseperables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the entries for last few days were all fanart, so that's why they're not posted here. you can find them on my tumblr @dropdeadjack under the musketeermarch tag

It was a bright, beautiful day. The four musketeers were sitting inside, in Athos' kitchen, their expressions glum.

"What about your poetry, Aramis?" Porthos asked.

The fair Musketeer shook his head sadly.

"We _need_ these horses," whined d'Artagnan.

Athos sighed.

"I've half a mind to just steal one," d'Artagnan said.

"But that would be very ungentlemanly," Athos pointed out.

"Bandit behaviour," Porthos added.

"Nice alliteration," Aramis commented.

"What is that?"

"Doesn't matter."

The table sank into silence once again.

"I thought you were given a ring by the queen," Athos said to d'Artagnan.

"I can't just _sell_ a token of Her Majesty!"

Porthos looked at the ring glimmering on d'Artagnan's finger. It was _extremely_ fanciful.

"Pray tell," he said. "Do you think waving it around could open some purses?"

"Not in a way that it would matter," d'Artagnan replied.

"Maybe it could open something else," Athos said thoughtfully.

"What do you mean, my friend?" Aramis asked.

"With some careful manoeuvring we might use it to our advantage," Athos said slowly. "Porthos."

"Yes?"

"You said you won some coin off that Red Guard last time."

"Yes."

"And then he won that coin and some more back."

"Yes."

"And then you won all that coin and his saddle.

"Yes."

"And then you went to the Red Guard stables to collect the saddle."

"Yes."

"And then you lost it all to the same Red Guard in one last game."

"Yes."

"May I ask," Aramis said, raising his hand. "What is the purpose of all this?"

"Does that mean you know the layout of the said stables?" Athos asked, ignoring Aramis.

"I do," Porthos said, "But why does it matter?"

D'Artagnan was inspecting his ring with renewed interest.

"I suppose if a gentleman of high bearing," Athos started, "If such a figure would appear at the stables, demanding a steed for him and brandishing a token from Her Majesty..."

He trailed off, in thought.

"Perhaps such a gentleman would be able to not only acquire a steed but also provide a decent amount of ruckus while arguing with the person in charge of the stables," d'Artagnan finished.

Porthos cackled. "Oh my!" he exclaimed, "One might even get a horse for his lackey!"

"I suppose I am a gentleman in this situation?" d'Artagnan asked.

"With all due respect," Aramis interrupted, "I have to argue that your person might not be the most suitable for that task."

Porthos nodded. "Of course the gentleman carrying out this scheme would have to be the most awe-inspiring and majestic individual of the company."

"Which is me," Aramis concluded.

"Meaning me," Porthos said at the same time.

"Which is Athos," d'Artagnan also said at the same time.

Athos stayed quiet.

"I suppose this plan needs some more ironing out," Athos sighed.

* * *

Constance was looking doubtfully at d'Artagnan.

"Las time you borrowed clothes we had to scrub the dust and blackpowder from them all day," she said accusingly.

D'Artagnan gave her his most apologetic smile.

"I would repay you extra," he said, "But not with money, we don't have any coin unfortunately."

Constance's face went even more doubtful.

"I know, you're late with the rent again."

D'Artagnan smiled wider, concealing the all-encompassing feeling of dread that engulfs all those whose landlords are very aware of them owing rent.

"I do keep this household safer just by the virtue of my presence, though!"

"I've been kidnapped once, visited by an assassin, almost assaulted by a deserter and dragged along to play a bait or a spy in your missions so many times I've lost count."

D’Artagnan’s smile faltered. "I won't be the one wearing the clothes, they're for Athos."

Constance's face immediately brightened. "Well, why didn't you mentioned that earlier?" She immediately started digging through various articles of clothing. "He's about your size, isn't he?"

"Yeah," d'Artagnan said, with a hint of betrayal in his voice. "So you don't have a problem lending things to Athos?"

Constance pulled out a brilliantly red doublet and breeches. "Of course I do," she said. "But he dislikes getting dirty."

She looked over the clothes. "At least most of the time."

D'Artagnan did his best not to think about a certain episode in a certain tavern basement involving a certain servant and copious amounts of spilled olive oil.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Thank you."

* * *

Aramis and Porthos were eyeing Athos and d'Artagnan critically. They've exchanged doubtful looks.

"You both look too much like yourselves," Porthos finally said.

"I've got an idea," Aramis said. He took Athos by his finely-clothed arm. "Come with me, I've got something special."

Porthos and d'Artagnan were left looking at each other alone.

"Try smearing more dirt over your face," Porthos suggested.

D'Artagnan looked at him doubtfully. "I don't think that will help concealing my identity that much."

Porthos nodded. "You land in the dirt too often."

They stood in silence.

"Maybe I should scrub my face especially hard," d'Artagnan finally said.

"Good idea. Try using soap."

* * *

The company has gathered again a few blocks away from the Red Guard stables. Athos was dolled up in a red getup with some white powder smoothening out his face into a perfect mask of a dusty corpse. There were subtle dashes of red on his cheeks in attempt to bring a breath of youth and liveliness to his sour disposition.

"Athos, my dear friend, I almost didn't recognise you," d'Artagnan exclaimed. His cheeks were still red from the vigorous scrubbing.

"Both of you look like completely different men," Porthos said.

"Different enough to fool the Red Guards?" d'Artagnan asked, toying with the cuffs on his sleeves. They were uncharacteristically clean.

Aramis nodded. "They've never seen either of you look this good, they'll never recognise you."

"Can we get this over with?" Athos asked, sounding strangled.

"Of course."

Athos and d'Artagnan purposefully walked towards the stables, Aramis and Porthos following at a safe distance.

A bored looking man stopped them at the stables.

“This is Red Guard stables, outsiders aren’t allowed inside,” he rattled off.

“I was sent here to obtain a horse for myself and my lackey,” Athos replied. “I was sent here from the palace.”

The Guard eyed him suspiciously. “And who exactly are you?” he asked.

Athos displayed d’Artagnan’s ring with flourish. “Someone sent by Her Majesty,” he said.

The Guard inspected the ring in detail. “How come she didn’t give you a letter?” he asked.

“It may not be very wise to have one,” Athos answered. “If you catch my drift.”

The guard hummed smartly and squinted at Athos’ face.

“Tell me,” he said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Your face seems strangely familiar.”

“Maybe,” Athos replied. “But to tell you for sure would be to betray Her Majesty’s trust.”

“It seems like you are truthful,” he finally said. “You said you need a horse?”

“One for me and one for my lackey.”

The Guard now squinted at d’Artagnan. “He doesn’t look much like a lackey.”

“He doesn’t,” Athos said. “Don’t write down you’ve lent these horses, it is in France’s best interest that there’s no traces left behind.”

The Guard nodded and went inside, calling one of the stablemen.

In the shadows, Porthos and Aramis were very casually making their way to the back of the stables.

“Two horses, strong and sure,” the Guard said, gesturing at two quite decent horses that were being led out. “Treat them well and they’ll serve you well.”

Athos gave the Guard a little bow. “We thank you,” he said. “You have done Her Majesty a great service.”

Another Red Guard walked next to them.

“Hello gentlemen,” he greeted politely. “Nice to see you, Hugues,” he said to the Guard.

Athos and d’Artagnan mumbled their greetings.

“Hey, don’t I know you two from somewhere?” he said.

Hugues nodded. “I said the same, Maurice.”

The other Guard narrowed his eyes, inspecting Athos, who was as cool and expressionless as always, and d’Artagnan who was just looking between the two Red Guards.

Maurice’s eyes widened.

“You!” he shouted and drew his sword. “Damn Musketeers are trying to rob us!”

Athos and d’Artagnan hesitated for a moment.

Maurice frantically pointed to d’Artagnan. “That fellow wounded our Captain just last week!”

Athos and d’Artagnan bolted, running through the streets of Paris.

About a moment later there was noises of something heavy hitting the wood and horses neighing and Aramis and Porthos stumbled out of the stables, hay everywhere, chased by a very furious stableboy.

* * *

They were sitting in Athos’ kitchen again, d’Artagnan and Athos now significantly sweatier and more dishevelled than before and Porthos and Aramis covered in stubborn pieces of hay and smelling faintly of horse excrement.

Athos wordlessly handed d’Artagnan his diamond ring.

“It looks like we’ll have to find another way,” Aramis sighed.

“Do you still have that string of widows?” Porthos asked him.

“I still owe Bonacieux rent,” d’Artagnan complained.

Athos took his handkerchief and started wiping the half sweated-off pigment off his face.

* * *

Athos, Porthos and Aramis were waiting with their horses on the road. All three animals were quite decent – not breathtaking by any means but any soldier could recognise them as reliable and worthy steeds.

Slowly, d’Artagnan’s familiar head appeared in the distance. He rode to the waiting trio miserably.

“By God,” Porthos exclaimed and immediately got kicked by Athos.

“I had to pay the rent first,” d’Artagnan said.

He was sitting upon a rather jaded horse. It was an old and weary animal and its main standout feature outside it’s lack of will to do anything was an extraordinarily vivid shade of its coat.

“It sure is very, uh,” Aramis said, his honeyed poet’s tongue leaving him high and dry. “It sure is yellow.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan replied miserably.

“Now that we’re all properly equipped,” Athos said, corners of his mouth insistently tugging up despite his attempt not to further wound his friend’s pride, “Shall we take our leave?”


	8. day 12 - Savoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> today's theme is angst, featuring aramis, marsac and a cadet with a scar on his face

He was so cold.

There was a pressure of _something_ at his head. He reached up, trying to feel what it was. His fingers touched his forehead, he _knew_ they were there pressing at his skull, but they were so numb with cold he couldn’t feel it, not really.

He brought his hands to his face, trying to warm them against his cheeks.

Feeling slightly more present, he looked around. He was slouched against a tree, frozen ground underneath him and snow all around. His gaze wandered back to himself, noticing that he’s been covered with a cloak.

It still didn’t do much to ward off the cold, his fingers red with it and tremors shaking his whole body.

How did he end up there?

* * *

Treville sent him together with twenty-one others for a special training exercise. They were to go to the forest near Savoy’s border, dealing with heavy snow on the way. It was a good exercise, many of them not having been that familiar with other parts of France than those they lived in.

Aramis himself recognised that he’s had much to learn, the surroundings being much different than those he was used to. But still, it wasn’t all business and him and Marsac had a snowball fight on right after making camp. Flushed with exertion and laughter they returned to the fire, ready to devour some of the stew that was steaming so appealingly.

* * *

Aramis decided to get up. His head, legs, whole body protested, but somehow he did it, using the tree trunk as the crutch. His head throbbed and vision swam, but somehow he managed to stay upright. He was overcome with nausea, but after a few wobbly seconds it subsided.

He staggered to another tree, catching himself as his legs were still unsteady. After a few moments of swallowing the bile down, he looked up again.

Cinders of the fire were still glimmering in the middle of the tents, all trampled and in disrepair now. There were bodies, dressed only in shirts and breeches, snow gently laying upon their motionless bodies.

It felt like the whole scene was frozen in time, the light snowflakes suspended in air above his fallen comrades.

* * *

When they went to sleep Aramis couldn’t rest easily. He was still unsteady, off-balance in the strange forest and with Marsac’s warm body right next to him.

When they play-fought in the snow Aramis felt his heart flutter at every open laugh and tackle he’s received from Marsac. There was something between them, but neither acknowledged it, throwing another snowball instead.

As they retired for the night there was no more distractions, only the dark and quiet breathing and snores of their comrades.

Aramis tried to sleep.

* * *

Aramis wandered between the bodies, ground slippery with ice and sticky with blood. None of them were sleeping anymore, faces and limbs contorted in their struggle for survival. Someone should clean them, at least close their eyes and give them the final rites.

He felt like if he was to kneel and attempt that he would end up on his knees, hunched over to join them in the freezing oblivion.

He blinked a snowflake out of his eyes.

He didn’t feel any tears coming, just horrible, horrible weight in his gut, weighing him down as if he devoured all twenty of them.

* * *

He couldn’t sleep.

He reached over to Marsac’s shoulder.

The rest of the camp was now quiet, the last of his comrades falling asleep too, leaving him the alone and open-eyed.

“Marsac,” he whispered, shaking his friend gently.

There was a pit in his stomach and his tongue felt too big, too heavy for his mouth, but he _needed_ to tell Marsac, to confess what was burning up in him and stealing his sleep.

“Marsac.”

His comrade finally stirred, sleepily rolling over. He blinked blearily at Aramis.

“What,” he mumbled.

Aramis found his mouth dry and words which usually came so easily to him were nowhere to be found.

“I can’t sleep,” he said instead.

“’s that why you woke me up?” Marsac asked groggily.

Aramis realised he was barely a hand away from his face. It would have been so easy to just do what he’s done so many times with so many people, to just lean in and cross that line-

“Yeah,” he admitted. Swallowing past a lump in his throat, he opened his mouth again.

“There’s something I must tell you,” he finally said.

Marsac looked a fraction more awake now. “It better be good,” he said, voice low and rough from sleep.

Aramis smiled bashfully before gathering himself again.

“I...”

He faltered.

* * *

And then there was no time for words because a horrible scream ripped through the night air and Aramis and Marsac were too busy fighting for their lives, a battle that all their comrades lost.

He thought that he was also doomed to join them in the cold hard ground, so he doubled his efforts, taking several men down and wounding the leader over his back, determined to make his last moments matter.

Then he was hit on the head and darkness took him before he hit the ground.

* * *

He fell to his knees anyway, the weight of the death around him too much for his legs to carry. He tried to breathe, but it seemed as if there was no air anymore, only cold and death.

There was a noise and he saw Marsac wandering around just like he did, eyes faraway and lost. Aramis opened his mouth to say something, but the words left him once again.

Instead he just silently watched as Marsac disposed of his uniform and walked away, moves sluggish and dreamlike, as if he was still moving in a dream.

* * *

He had a faint impression of being dragged away, of someone propping him against the tree and shaky fingers bandaging him up.

He tried to move, to say something but he was shushed and then the oblivion returned.

* * *

He was truly alone now, staring at the discarded pauldron, also getting covered in snow just like all the bodies around him.

Just like him.

He felt like he was on the edge of an enormous precipice, like a wolf with stones sewn into his gut at the well, heavy and ready to fall.

He did the only thing he knew.

He prayed.

* * *

When they’ve found him his hands and face had gone purple from the cold and the tremors were so strong that he could barely stay upright.

It was one of the poachers who stumbled upon the scene, himself shaky and unsteady. He draped his cloak around Aramis and lead him to his village, asking him questions that he received no answer to.

The only words that Aramis uttered were those addressing God, prayers and pleas, questions and accusations.

He was led to a hearth and given warm soup that had to be fed to him spoonful by spoonful. Someone gave him more blankets and he remained there, clutching his rosary and lips moving soundlessly.

The next morning he scrawled a note to be carried to Paris, movements shaky and uncoordinated.

It took them several days to come for him, a small company of Musketeers and cadets to take care of him and all the dead.

He still didn’t talk to anyone but God as he rode back, the way passing in a daze.

* * *

It took him a good week, closer to two to finally walk into the garrison courtyard, now much emptier than he remembered. He felt Treville’s gaze on him as he just stood at the entrance, taking in the scene.

He climbed upstairs to Treville’s office.

“It’s good to see you back here,” Treville said.

Aramis just nodded mutely, words once again leaving him. Last time he was there he had to-

“You should just practice with others for a while,” Treville said. “That concussion couldn’t have done you any favours.”

Aramis nodded.

“I’ll see if you’re fit for full return to action in a few days.” Treville looked him over. “Don’t strain yourself too much, understood?”

“Understood.” Aramis’ voice was raw and rough.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Aramis left the office, returning to the courtyard. There was a cadet standing at the side, practising the guard positions. He stopped.

“Wanna spar?” the cadet asked.

Aramis looked him over. Despite his youth there was already a deep, vivid scar over his face.

* * *

When he returned, the passing Musketeers looked at him with a mixture of fascination and pity. Those whose friends have been among the twenty dead didn’t spare him looks, except when they did they were heavy with accusations.

How dare he live when others can’t?

* * *

Aramis nodded.

When they crossed swords, Aramis still unsteady, the cadet didn’t say anything.

Aramis was afraid of looking into his eyes for the fear of finding same pity or accusations as in the others, but swordfighting without looking opponent’s face was near impossible.

He raised his gaze and met cadet’s eyes, not pitying or accusatory, just warm and understanding, but also sparkling with the heat of the movements.

Their swords clashed again, this time Aramis’ movements a bit less frantic and more steady.

Holding a sword in his hand awoke the cold in his heart, but the swift movements and warm eyes of that man were enough to keep the ghosts of Savoy at bay.


End file.
